Rec Post 1 || March 26-27, 2008 || Comedy & Crack

Nobody wants to tell Spencer that he's been cast as the amphibian menace.

Well, actually, everyone kind of wants to tell Spencer that he's been cast as the amphibian menace - they just want to do it with some guarantee of their continued existence. Pete calls Spencer the "sleeper badass," because he looks soft like a girl ("If you ever compare me to a girl again," Spencer hisses, "I will reach down your throat and castrate you from the inside."), but he will totally, totally kick your ass. Especially if he hasn't had caffeine. One time one of the music kids got uppity during registration, calling Ryan a "prissy homo camwhore", and Spencer punched him in the face so hard they were all pretty sure he'd broken something. Spencer just said the little prick was lucky he hadn't gone for his keyboard, then proceeded to lecture the whole class on how essential orchestral additions were to any musical piece. That part is boring, but the important thing to remember is that Spencer? Will fuck you up.

They draw straws again ("Except for Mikey," Gerard bitches, "we wouldn't want him thinking he has to fuck Spencer into complacency."), but it doesn't work because they're in the cafeteria and everyone has grabbed extras just in case. The old rock-paper-scissors routine fails too, since Gabe is always throwing "cobra" and claiming it trumps anything. William pretends to stab Gabe's cobra with his scissors and Gabe makes horrible hissing sounds. Gerard has a headache.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she whispers into his hair, because apparently “hello” isn’t mortifying enough. “You can sleep with him and get it out of your system, and then we can start a club.”

“C’mon,” Mikey tugs them apart and turns to leave. “I’m pretty sure we parked in a handicapped spot.”

Alicia slides a casual hand into Patrick’s back pocket and pulls him into step behind Mikey. She presses her face into his shoulder, and her smile is wide enough that Patrick can feel it even through the denim of his jacket. “We can make t-shirts.”

--there is more fic here, but i had to let you guys read this--

“And this…bunny, it represents the object of your unwanted affections. You must take it and burn it in effigy using only the blood of a hundred virgins for fuel.”

Patrick stills immediately, hands clutching the plastic beads around his neck like a rosary. Before he can get out the “dude, what the fuck” on the tip of his tongue, though, there’s a muffled yell from upstairs and then a very angry Mikey Way flailing down into the basement.

“You can’t burn Mr. Boppity, you jackass,” Mikey is screaming, launching himself across the table toward his brother. “You promised you were just going to borrow him!”

Alicia follows down the stairs at a more leisurely pace, mostly empty PopSecret bag dangling loosely from one hand, and Patrick isn’t sure whether he should be laughing because Mikey has a stuffed bunny named Mr. Boppity, or crying because Mikey and Alicia have, apparently, been listening outside the door this whole time.

By the time Alicia reaches the bottom of the staircase, Mikey has Gerard backed up against the room’s twin bed and is attempting to strangle him with his own stupid red scarf.

“So,” Alicia says, plopping nonchalantly into Patrick’s lap and offering him a handful of popcorn, “do you take a Youth Large or an Adult Small?”

“This is so insane.” Frank shakes his head. “Seriously, man, I think Gerard's going to try to declare himself dictator of the opposition in the zompire wars, or something.”

Brendon perks up. “That sounds pretty cool, actually! Do you think we'd get horses?”

“I should be surprised,” Frank says, “and yet, really not. How you been, man?”

“I have a Jon now!” Brendon says, flinging an arm around Jon's shoulders.

“So I see,” Frank says, and hey, this is Frank Iero leering at him. Okay.

“Something tells me,” he hears Spencer say, “that there's going to be a lot of end-of-the-world sex going on.”

Jon glances over; Spencer's been cornered by both Andy and Bob. Brendon laughs.

“Oh my God,” Gerard says, and smacks Pete again. “Spencer is a decade younger than you.”

“And?”

Jon watches, mildly concerned, as Gerard walks over to the hotel room wall and starts whacking his head against it. “Doomed,” he says, sounding near hysterics.

Ryan's eyes are just about as wide as they go. “Jon,” he says in a voice that's almost not a monotone, “Jon. I think I'm in love.”

The discussions about the fic are always serious, serious business. Everyone contributes really good analysis but Gerard's the best. Once, after a vigorous debate about why a fic just wasn't working, Gerard sums it up perfectly when he says, "I think the real problem here is that the characterization is all off. Pete is shallower in real life. No offense, Pete."

"None taken," Pete nods seriously. "I am a shallow motherfucker."

Joe is also awesome to have around for the discussion because he loves to talk about artistic vision. He loves it when they look at multiple fics by the same author to chart the author's progression.

It's moments like this that make Pete so happy that they expanded the fic club. Sure, the discussions were good when it was just the four of them but now, with everyone here, it's really forcing people to sit back and think about things.

At their most recent potluck, Pete's mentally patting himself on the back over his ability to find smart, thoughtful people when Brendon exclaims, "Ohhh! Spinach artichoke dip!"

Well, most everyone has smart, insightful commentary.

“Billy,” Bob says, and bumps Bill’s fist.

LP runs off screaming for Ray, and Bill slumps down on the counter. “I’m a frazzled mess, Robert,” Bill says. “Please tell me you have the entire first three seasons of the Power Rangers.”

Bob arches an eyebrow.

LP yells from the back of the store, “Thunder Cats, Thunder Cats, Thunder Cats, ho!” and Bill slaps a hand over his face.

“Oh my god, Bob,” Bill says. “I hate my life.”

“Um.”

Bob cocks his head at Ross, watches his fingers fidget with his book.

“Mr. Beckett? I’m.” Ross holds out a hand. “I’m Ryan Ross. LP’s teacher.”

“Dude.” Bill grasps Ross’s hand. “Dude, bless you, okay. LP’s the devil.”

“Dad! Daddy, dad, Mr. Spencer has CANDY! I want some!”

“Long Play Beckett, mind your manners,” Bill yells back, and then LP goes, “PLEASE.”

“She’s, uh, enthusiastic,” Ross says.

Bill points a finger at him. “I like your attitude, Ross. You lie, but I like it. This fucking rain is killing me.”

Ross’s mouth curves up a little, almost a smile, and Bob’s heart fucking stutters.

Shit.